


heaven sighs

by jilyandbambi



Category: A Star is Born (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-27 23:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16229567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jilyandbambi/pseuds/jilyandbambi
Summary: None of them can get Ally to leave. And they do try.





	heaven sighs

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like sad endings. 
> 
> Unbeta'd (sorry)

There’s nothing but white when he opens his eyes— _bright_ white, all shimmering and pearly and stark and blinding, like; and that’s how he knew right away something’s fucked, because there was no way— _no fucking way_ —Jackson fucking Maine got a golden ticket into The Room Upstairs just like that, without havin’ to do a little time first.

It wasn’t something he thought much about, the afterlife, that is—which was fucking stupid of him given what he’d just done and how fucking often he’d fantasized about doin’ it, and doin’ it right the next time around—but whenever Jack did spare a thought to where he might go at the end of all things, he always figured that if there actually was anything to go on to after you were gone, he at least owed the Big Man a couple hundred, or more like a couple _hundred_ _thousand_ years down below, barbecuing on a slab of brimstone or whatever the fuck before he was clean enough to “go on to glory,” as they say. But so it goes.

Jack blinked, and blinked again, and again as his eyes began to water in all the blinding white drowning them out. Then he blinked one final time and shut his eyes for good, squeezin’ them up tight because _it’s not_ that _light you’re seeing, you dumb fuck_. It was the regular kind of light. Sunlight; bouncin’ off white walls: White hospital walls. Of a hospital. Because fuck everything, it’s not like the saying goes “Second Time’s the Charm,” after all.

He opened his eyes again, slower this time, deliberate, having to squint as he tried to make the world around him click into focus. He swallowed—tried to—but something was stuck, or not stuck, but stopping up his throat, cutting off his gag reflex. Beside him there was this mind-numbing tinny sound that, until things came more into focus, Jack thought was just his fucking ear again; until he remembered he was in a hospital and that of course he’d be hooked up to a heart monitor, _you shithead_. He took a deep breath in through his mouth and tried to sit up, but couldn’t because there was something holding him down, holding the breath in, sitting—no—sleeping like a rock across his chest; a tangerine halo lit up like a campfire by the sun streaking in through the room’s huge ass window. The sight of her knocked the wind right back into Jack and he shook himself inwardly to make sure his body was with him when he reached down to sweep the hair from her face. Except the hand he called wasn’t answering, and neither was the other one.

Right. He’s seen this in movies and stuff. They do this to the fuckup headcases who can’t get it right, strap you down to your bed so you can’t finish what you started on while you’re on their watch. _Fuck_.

Jack knew he was fucked. Unable to speak, unable to move, fucking cuffed to a damn hospital bed like the fucking fuckup junkie fuck he is, with nothing but that goddamn singsong from Hell ringing in time with the _beep_ , _beep_ , _beep_ of the heart rate monitor: fuckup. fuck you. fuck. On an endless loop; and maybe this was Hell after all, only instead of burning for eternity—or a couple hundred thousand years, if the Man Upstairs believed in credit time served—it was lying paralyzed and mute in a stark white hospital room with the ghost of your wife sleeping on top of you and you not able to wake her—or hell, even touch her, even just once, just one more time—and tell her you’re sorry and you love her and you need her and you’re so scared, you’re so fucking scared, and she’s the only thing that makes it better, even just a little bit, even on the days you feel like givin’ up, and that the only reason you even did like this, this time, in the first place was so she could have her fucking shot, and that all you could think about as you were bleedin’ out in the flatbed of your truck was how her face must’ve looked when she got up on that stage to get her first ever Grammy and she looked over at you, and you, you—you— _Oh God, baby, please don’t be mad. I can make it right, I’ll make it right, I—!_

It all happened so fast, Jack was still so lightheaded and barely there. The beeping was less and there was something rustling on his chest and a hand—not Ally’s—pulling the tube from his mouth and the voice of someone he didn’t recognize saying, “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Maine,” and Jack’s breathing through his mouth and it _hurts like fuck_ , and then orange.

“Baby, baby, oh my God, thank you, thank you, thank you, God…”

There’s hair in his mouth and lips on his face, cheek, lips, nose, cheek, and every hairy gulp of air Jackson takes sends shards of glass down his throat, but he won’t let up until he has the breath to say the most important thing.

“‘…yyyy…”

Not that. His arms were still weighted down by the cuffs on his wrists. He banged them against the bars of the hospital bed to get the doctor’s attention. It worked, but looking at the doc’s face he can tell he isn’t so sure, but Ally won’t have it.

“I’m with him. I’ve got him. He’s not gonna—not gonna…you know, anything. So you can take those off. I’ve got him now.”

Nothing happens.

“ _I said take them off!!_ ”

They aren’t off yet, but a grin stretched its way across Jack’s face anyway. That’s Jack’s girl. That’s his fucking wife. His fucking wife and he almost lost her. Fuck.

The cuffs come off but Jack’s arms were like new chords, stiff and twingey, they snap audibly and send twin jolts of pain through his joints when he throws them around Ally and clings.

She melds into him like butter, like always; her head slotting into that nesting place between his neck and his clavicle, her little hand coming up to rest against his chest, her dancer’s legs slotting between his, a key in a lock, a perfect fit, custom made. Nothing’s changed, except everything; Ally’s hand finds his and pulls it up to her lips, then locks her fingers around his, tight, _just in case_ , something whispers in his tinny ear. In the other one, his good one, he feels Ally’s breath against the shell, choked and warm, breaking: _I’m here, baby. I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m not gonna leave you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry._

And he hates.

 

* * *

Rez didn’t tell her until after the after-party. When she came off stage he’d said _he’d sent someone to fetch Jackson_ , that he’d said to tell her he’d be waiting for her on the bus once she was through with the meet and greets. That was bull and she’d known it, but there were two hundred people waiting in the pavilion to have their pictures taken and autographs signed and she was so tired and so sick with worry she’d _needed_ to believe then that all she had to do was get through one more fan, one more photoshoot, one more crowd before she could see her Jackson again.

And then the meet and greet was over and the bus was there, and so were some reps from Interscope wanting to talk about the tour, about how she couldn’t just back out at the last minute, the label was counting on her, her fans were counting on her, they’d stuck with her through the debacle at the Grammy’s, did she really want to squash what good faith she still had? She tried to walk past them toward the bus, to Jackson, but Rez had her by the shoulders and swung her back around to _hear them out, love. Just hear us out, yeah? We’re still in triage mode, remember?_ She shook him off, but stayed to listen and nod along like a good little girl. She told them she’d think about reconsidering Europe to shut them up, and before they could pounce on that opening, showed them her back and was marching toward the bus when Rez stopped her again.

His hands were shaking as they held her in place. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Her first and most important clue: Rez, slick, smooth, “let me have the reins” Rez, couldn’t even face her when she demanded to know where her husband was.

There’d been a situation, he’d said. Butitwasalreadyundercontrol. He didn’t see any reason to stress her. To ruin what would’ve been the last night of her tour. It was such an important night for them, he couldn’t have her worrying over something so small. Ally had had him on mute by that point, but she’s pretty damn sure he’d slipped and said“someone.”

Her hand was busted open when she got to the hospital, and there were a million paparazzi waiting for her outside the entrance, as though they’d been notified in advance by her Uber driver. For all Ally knew, Enrique, Mr. 4.7 stars could have done exactly that.

Nevertheless, the cameras are gracious enough to clear a path for her to the hospital doors, for which Ally is grateful because this is her first time in forever braving the paps without a bodyguard or Jackson at her side. The walk to the reception desk happened in slow-mo, but the chief benefit of being a Grammy-winning artist is that the receptionist already knows who she and who she’s there for before she can even say. Which was good, because by that point Ally was too hysterical to ask the woman to _please, please, God, please take her to her husband._

 

 

* * *

 

None of them can get Ally to leave. And they do try. _They_ try. They—the nurses, and orderlies, and Ramon, and Lorenzo, _fuckin_ ’ Rez—and havin’ that fucker show up and seein’ him sneerin’ down at Jack in his bed, tryin’ to drag Ally from the room, had Jack ready to take his IV to the sutures along his wrists. It’s only the look on that limey prick’s face when Ally tells him to go to Hell that stops him—but Jack, Jack is resigned. It only took one full hour with her in his arms, bawlin’ into his neck—a full straight hour of nothin’ but apologies from her—for him to get it, that this wasn’t gonna be like the time when he was thirteen. Ally wasn’t Bobby, and she sure as fuck wasn’t Dad; but this was new, bein’ coddled through it all. Jack didn’t know what to do, so he didn’t.

Some orderlies bring Ally in a cot that night, once they finally give up on trying to get her to go home. Apparently, he’d been out of it for a couple days now, and in all that time she hadn’t left his side once. It showed, she looked like she ought to be checked in beside him, with her face all pale, eyes red and sunken, smudged with days-old mascara and liner, hair stringy unkempt. Dinner came with the cot and Jack didn’t miss the pointed way the orderly—who was old enough to be his mother—stared Ally down and wouldn’t let up until she promised to eat every bite of her lasagna.

“She will,” turned out to be the first thing Jack says since waking up. The spark of hope that lit up Ally’s eyes when he finally did made it worth it. She does eat all her food, and then his when he slides it onto her tray. Even if his throat weren’t killin’ him he wouldn’t be able to eat knowin’ he’d left her like this; despondent and aching, ready to drive herself into a coma waiting on his junkie ass to come around. Fuck if Jack knew how he was gonna make this right now that his original plans fell through, but stuffing her full of pasta seemed like a good first step.

 

 

* * *

 

The doc wanted to cart him off to the psych ward; but Jack shot that down right off the bat. Rehab was one thing, but the nuthouse? Fucking joke, man. Dr. Tapper, who looked way too fucking good to be a damn doctor, wouldn’t let up, though, and Jack had been about three seconds from telling him where he could go when he felt Ally squirmin’ beside him on the bed.

“What?” he turned to look at her. She didn’t meet him.

“Could you excuse us please, doctor,” she said to Tapper instead. Looking too satisfied for Jack’s liking the doctor nodded and went out into the hallway, closing the door to the room behind him.

“What?” Jack said again. Ally still wouldn’t look up. He couldn’t fuckin’ do this. Damn near seventy-two hours of everyone who came through the door of his hospital room casting simpering glances down at him and cooing over Ally and treating them both like they were pieces of cracked porcelain, a pair of defiled artifacts only to be handled with terry cloth gloves. He couldn’t have it anymore. Especially not from her.

He tipped her chin up, stroking his thumb along the bottom of her lip. “What?” he whispered.

She blinked and tried to turn her head away. He let her, knowing she couldn’t ignore him now.

“I want you to come on tour with me.”

That threw him.

“ _What?_ ”

“But I can’t,” she went on. “I can’t have that.”

Jack couldn’t even get out a straight answer. “Wh-What are you—Who said you—I’ll go, if you want?”

“I do want that. I mean,” she sighed heavily and turned up to look at him. “I wanted that before, when I told Rez I wanted you to come on tour with me, and he said no, so I told him to cancel the whole thing because I wanted you with me or I didn’t want to do it at all. I meant that, then. But I can’t—I can’t—”

Her voice broke and her face crumpled. She covered it with her hands as a sob bubbled it’s way up her throat. Jack’s heart sank and he tried to pull her to him. She shook him off, rubbing at her wet eyes with the palms of her hands.

“I can’t do this again. This. You, here. Hurting yourself. I can’t—” She shuddered, and finally turned to look at him, and her stare, swarming with ferocity and love and fury and devotion, almost made Jack flinch away; bu the didn’t dare. “I _will_ , because I love you. You’re the most important person in the world to me, the love of my life, Jack. I’m never, ever gonna leave you. The only thing I’m askin’ is that you return the favor.”

Now Jack did look away.

“I don’t-I don’t know what happened between when I left and wh-when you, did what you did. And you don’t have to tell me til you’re ready. But God, Jack. If I get another call like that, if I have to spend three days cryin’ over your body, asking God to give you back to me, if I have to do that even one more time it might just kill me.”

Jack hung his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“ _I don’t need sorry!_ ” Ally’s scream made him shrink back even further. She must have noticed since she grabbed his hand and squeezed it—as though in apology—before bringing it into her lap. “I don’t need sorry. I just need you to get better.”

“You want me to see a shrink?” He didn’t mean for there to be so much bile when he said it. Ally’s eyes slipped shut and she looked so tired, like she’d aged ten years in the week he’d been in the hospital. Jack had never felt lower, more closer to his fucking fuckup waste of life father.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And knew Ally could tell he meant it.

“I want you to go to therapy,” she said gently, back to looking at him now. “Whether it’s here at the hospital. Or maybe we could find you someone to see somewhere else, but—”

“Okay.”

She looked startled, as though she’d been expecting more of a fight. Honestly, so had he. But she’d asked, and honestly, who the fuck was he to tell her “no,” now, after everything he’d put her through? 

“Okay?”

He nodded, and brought her stitched up knuckles to his lips. “Yeah.” He followed it up with a kiss to each one. “I owe you one.” 

Ally bristled. “Don’t do it for me.”

Jack shrugged, bent low and kissed her lips. “That’s all I got right now,” he said. “You.”

Her lips wobbled and her face clouded up, distraught, and for a moment, he was worried he’d fucked it up all over again. But in that little time something must have settled for her because her face cleared and she melted back into his side, stopping short to tip her head back and lean into his shoulder.

“Just as long as I got you, too,” she said, demanding a promise from him. Jack wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tighter, and bopped their foreheads together and sealed his vow with a long press of his lips.

“Forever.”

And he meant it this time.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn't clear, I changed Jack's chosen method of suicide from hanging to overdose/wrist cutting. 
> 
> I have another plot bunny for an A Star Is Born fic, very different in tone from this one. I don't know if I'll ever get around to writing it, though. 
> 
> I'm flaminganakin on Tumblr, come say hi and cry over Ally and Jackson with me <333
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are nice!


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